


Actually, Love

by Spencer5460



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Academy, Angst, Gen, Photography as a hobby, Pre-Series, References to the death of Starsky's father, bonds of friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-10-04 08:56:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17301674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spencer5460/pseuds/Spencer5460
Summary: At the police academy Ken Hutchinson makes friends easily, with one notable exception.  What does a certain rough-edged New Yorker have against him anyway?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Starsky & Hutch Archive 2018 Advent Calendar.  
> Inspired by the events in the 2003 film, "Love Actually," and in particular the cue card scene, as seen here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yd_fcyg1Fdk
> 
> *Love is All Around, Lyrics by Wes Presley

_I feel it in my fingers_  
_I feel it in my toes_  
_The love that's all around me_  
_And so the feeling grows*_

“You ain’t in prep school anymore, blondie,” Dave Starsky goaded Ken Hutchinson as they faced off on the mats. 

“What?” Ken asked. They had been singled out of the roomful of cadets in order to practice the latest self-defense moves their instructor had just demonstrated. 

“Those whites of yours look like you’re tryin’ out for the tennis team.” 

A couple of guys watching from the sidelines snickered as Ken looked down at his clothes. While the other police hopefuls were wearing faded sweats or cut-off jeans, Ken was dressed in crisp white shorts from L.L. Bean. Thank God he’d opted for the plain green tee he’d stashed in his locker alongside his polo shirt. Starsky’s shorts, on the other hand, were so shredded they’d be lucky to stay on him once Ken pinned him to the floor—as he was confident he could do.

Starsky and the rest of Ken Hutchinson’s classmates were wrong to underestimate his schoolboy charm. As a matter of fact, they were wrong to underestimate him in general. But Ken wasn’t surprised. Their reaction to him wasn’t totally unexpected. He was far from his home and out of his element. 

In the gated Minnesota community where he’d been raised, he was just one of any number of attractive blond-haired, blue-eyed boys, bound for private school and then college. His good looks weren’t anything out of the ordinary. Ken could also swing a mean bat and run like the wind—plus smile like an angel—which gave him a slight edge in the friendship department. Back then, he’d had no lack of friends, either male or female.

But Ken was in Southern California now, attending the police academy with a group of exuberant young men—and a few women—from all walks of life. Their skin tones were varied, their accents were mostly working class. Several were even fresh from the military. Ken doubted any of them had attended college the way he had. A few pre-law classes on his father’s dime. That was before he’d dropped out and headed west, reluctant bride in tow. Not that any of it mattered to him.

  


Ken wasn’t completely panned by his classmates at the academy, however. As time passed, he’d made a friend or two. But Dave Starsky had seemed to have it out for him from day one. Ken didn’t know why he cared so much; he just did. Dark and earthy, with a full head of curly hair, Starsky was the opposite of Ken in every way. His accent gave away his east-coast upbringing. Rumor had it he was the son of a cop. Another rumor was that he’d spent time in the army. But that’s where the rumors stopped. When it came to what he might have experienced in Vietnam, Starsky was infamously silent. 

Starsky made a quick, cat-like move that Ken was lucky to evade. He stepped out of range and keenly assessed his opponent close up. Starsky was strong, his arms and legs well-muscled. For the first time Ken realized he’d been the one to do the underestimating. While Ken’s moves were more graceful, Starsky was unquestionably tenacious. The kind of pluck one didn’t get on a well-groomed baseball field or country club tennis court. The realization struck him. Ken found himself actually admiring the guy. The same guy who called him “blondie”—an odd cross between disparagement and appreciation—and took every opportunity to challenge him. 

The second time Starsky approached, Ken didn’t react quickly enough with the countermove they’d been shown. With a whoosh of breath, Starsky had Ken’s back on the mat and firmly held him there. Starsky looked Ken square in the eye—their faces mere inches apart—and Ken could swear he felt actual sparks fly between them. He saw a flash of a grin on Starsky’s face—a most intriguing expression. But then the grin was gone, replaced by what could have been described as a snarl. The next thing he knew, Starsky backed off as if he’d been burned and Ken got to his feet. 

“What happened there, Hutchinson?” the instructor snapped. “You can’t let yourself get distracted like that. When you’re out on the streets every little distraction could be the difference between of life or death.” 

Ken shook his head, willing his face not to color, waiting for Starsky’s predictable come back. But Starsky didn’t say anything more. He just took a swig from the water cooler and then headed toward the showers.

ooOoo 

Ken should have been happy. After several weeks into the program, Starsky’s teasing had stopped. But damn if he didn’t actually miss the barbs that had always been more witty than venomous. In fact, the man practically seemed to be avoiding him in a way that he didn’t anyone else. He sat as far away from him as possible in classes, hung back if Ken was talking with a group in the hallway, didn’t join him at lunch and never, ever partnered with him in self-defense training—or anything else for that matter— again. 

They both had become good friends with another cadet named John Colby, but like Clark Kent and Superman, Starsky and “Hutch,” as Colby had come to call Ken, never seemed to be in the same place at the same time.

“What’s with that guy?” Hutch finally found himself asking Colby as Starsky got up and walked away from the table a minute after Hutch sat down. He’d stopped in at Huggy Bear’s, a local dive bar favored by the cadets. The bar was small and cozy, the drinks were cold, and the upbeat proprietor carefully walked the line between his civilian and police patrons. 

“Who? Starsky? He’s okay.” Colby said then nonchalantly tipped back his bottle of beer. The nuances of interpersonal relationships weren’t his thing.

Starsky, meanwhile, had gone to cut into a game of darts, effectively turning his back on Colby and Hutch.

“He acts like I have a disease or something.”

Colby’s grin had a mocking edge. “He does seem to have something against you. Maybe he just doesn’t like Vikings.”

“Ha-ha.” Hutch got the attention of a waitress and pointed to Colby’s beer, indicating that he’d have the same.

“Honestly, I have no idea,” Colby continued. “He’s a good guy, but he’s a little rough around the edges. Maybe he’s just out of his depth.”

Hutch could sympathize with feeling out of place and the wondering of whether he was headed the right direction. But he had a wife at home. Someone on his side at the end of a grueling day. That was supposed to help to ease the transition. “Maybe you should tell him sometime that I don’t bite.” 

The waitress, a buxom, bottle-dyed blonde with a surprisingly pretty smile, set an open bottle in front of Hutch. He nodded his thanks and for the first time noticed a well-used case for an SLR camera hanging from the chair Starsky had vacated. 

“Is that his?” Hutch asked, gesturing with his glass to the worn case.

“Yeah. Apparently, he likes to take pictures. You wouldn’t have expected it, would you?” John commented.

Colby’s statement irked him enough to snap, “Why not?” then hoped Colby didn’t take the heat in his tone the wrong way. He needn’t have worried. As usual, John Colby was singularly unruffled.

“Well, professional wrestling or stock car racing I can believe, but photography? For a guy like Starsky? I mean, that’s more for artists and hippies. Next thing you know, he’ll say he writes poetry.” 

“Hmmmm,” Hutch savored the refreshing drink that slid down his throat. It had been a full day of classes and sometimes, going home to his wife, whose dissatisfaction with being married to a cop-in-training seemed to be growing by the day, wasn’t all that appealing. Sometimes, just hanging out with a buddy was far preferable.

Hutch found himself watching Starsky’s cocky stance across from the dart board. His deft thrust with the darts made them sail through the air, striking the board precisely more often than not. Hutch got the distinct impression Dave Starsky could do anything he wanted if he put his mind to it. Take aesthetic photographs, write lyrical poetry. Maybe someday even be his friend.


	2. Chapter 2

_It's written on the wind_  
_It's everywhere I go_  
_So if you really love me_  
_Come on and let it show*_

“I hope you weren’t expecting dinner,” Vanessa said as Hutch he walked through the door to their apartment. “I’ve been on my feet for hours.”

Hutch winced. He felt awful that Vanessa had taken a part time job at a jewelry store. He hadn’t wanted her to, but couldn’t deny that any added income was a help to their over-stressed budget. Vanessa had been excited to come with him to California, but her dreams of fun and sun had quickly faded. Especially after he told her that his parents would no longer be helping with their expenses. Personally, he'd hadn’t expected them to after he'd quit school against their wishes. He was determined to stand on his own two feet. 

“That's okay. I grabbed something at Huggy’s.” Two beers and a handful of pretzels would have to do for tonight. 

“Where?” Vanessa called from the couch, her feet propped up on the coffee table and a glass of chardonnay in her hand. 

“Huggy Bear’s. That little hole in the wall place I told you about.” Hutch sat down next to her and took one of her feet in his large hands.

Vanessa sighed. “Really, Ken. That doesn’t sound like the right place for you to be spending so much time.”

“It’s not so bad. A lot of the guys like to go there after class to unwind.” 

“I hope you’re not going to make this a habit. Can’t you find a better class of people to socialize with?” Vanessa sipped from the pricey, hand-blown glass, one of a multitude of wedding gifts they’d only just finished sending out thank you cards for, and tossed a length of glossy, chestnut hair over her shoulder.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Hutch stopped massaging her foot, as his stomach made an uneasy pitch. As much as he loved Vanessa, she had a habit of sounding snooty. He tried to remind himself that she came by it honestly. That, like him, his model-gorgeous wife had come from a privileged background and was sure to change her perspective once she got to meet more of his friends. 

“Civil servants and bartenders? I would hope you’d aim to mingle with some officers—a captain or lieutenant at least. Even a politician or two might be fun.” Vanessa smiled at him in that breathtakingly wicked way that always drew him in and allowed him to overlook her shallow remarks. Brian Wilson obviously hadn’t met Vanessa, because California girls had nothing on her. 

With his drive and her class, Hutch felt sure everything would work out for them in time. 

ooOOoo

Despite the rocky start, Hutch felt more secure in his decision to come to California and enroll in the police academy as the weeks passed. Unlike college, the courses were more pragmatic and hands on and he was beginning to develop meaningful friendships with others in his program. He found the differences in their backgrounds enhanced rather than hurt their relationships. Hutch was also enjoying connecting with the fixtures in his working-class community—Louie, the paunchy, ever-smiling deli owner; Adele, the baker who kept her long white hair twisted into a French knot; the long-suffering waitresses and early-morning newspaper hawkers. 

The same couldn't be said for Vanessa. Instead of reaching out to their neighbors, she stayed holed up in the apartment much of the time. The sun was too hot, the beaches too crowded, the streets too run down. The only time she seemed content was when she was working at the jewelry store. It was obvious Vanessa enjoyed dressing up for her job, which also allowed her to model various pieces for customers—necklaces and bracelets far out of range of a policeman’s salary. She seemed dazzled by the high-priced gems as well as by the well-heeled clientele. 

Hutch listened to Vanessa talk about her work at the store but couldn't understand her passion for inanimate stones, no matter how sparkling. Conversely, Vanessa seemed bored or even disgusted when he shared with her the daily details of his police training. Sometimes Hutch feared their lives were going in separate directions. But then he'd brush his uneasiness aside, reminding himself of Van’s criticism that he tended to overthink things. He was determined to hold their marriage together. 

If only Vanessa could appreciate what Hutch saw in the people he'd gotten to know. The people he'd soon be responsible for. Everyone had a story. Since Van had no desire to join him at Huggy’s, Hutch began to invite a few of his friends over to their apartment from time to time. They’d watch a game on TV or play poker—quickly switching to Monopoly when Vanessa let her distaste for gambling be known, even if they only played for spare change. A low-brow waste, she called it. 

One evening, after perhaps a few beers too many, Hutch dared to break out his guitar. “Hey, that’s pretty good,” Colby had remarked. Then someone started using a stack of textbooks as a drum set, and an impromptu dance party had ensued. But when a potted orchid was knocked over onto the cream-colored rug, Vanessa was not amused. 

“I'd prefer you keep your high jinx at the bar,” Van announced as Hutch and his friends scrambled to clean up the mess. 

The party broke up soon after. Despite his embarrassment at being scolded like a child, Hutch figured maybe she was right. Their apartment was designed more for style than comfort. Even _he_ didn't really feel at home there. But it suited Vanessa and he wanted desperately to make her happy. After all, happy wife—happy life, as the old adage went. But why was it, Hutch wondered, that neither one of them was?

Even the academy spring outing—a picnic and softball game between cadets and rookies—had ended in disaster. Hutch already knew it was pointless to try to impress Vanessa with his athletic prowess. Sports was another interest they didn’t happen to share. “I don't see the allure of sliding around in the dirt,” Vanessa remarked. Still, several of Hutch’s teammates sent jealous looks his way. Even dressed down as she was in jeans and a prim sweater set, Vanessa was a head-turner. Admiring glances was one thing she didn’t seem to mind.

“I'd rather wear a diamond than run around one,” Vanessa commented on their way home. “And what's with that curly-haired New Yorker?”

“What do you mean?” Hutch asked though he knew who she was referring to right off. David Starsky posed a definite attraction for the ladies, but he certainly wasn't Vanessa’s type. _Was he?_

“I mean, he seemed to have some hard-on for you.”

Hutch blushed at her pointed language. Was it that obvious? He was well aware Starsky was the only one who hadn't congratulated him on his game-winning run. Vanessa must have noticed it, too. He didn't know whether to feel annoyed at Starsky or gratified that Vanessa for once seemed to be on Hutch’s side. 

“I tried to be friendly with him. That is what you wanted isn't it? To make friends? I offered him a lemonade when you were on base but he just mumbled something about me being ‘Hutch’s’ wife and said he'd pass. He’d barely look at me,” Vanessa declared with a touch of disbelief. “I felt like throwing the drink in his arrogant face.”

Just his luck. Of all people, his haughty wife had to pick Starsky to try to be friendly with. Make that strike number two against the guy. Hutch figured he'd never get Starsky over to his side now. He wondered why it bothered him so much. Funny though. Usually men fell all over themselves for Van’s attentions. As well as he knew her, Hutch was sure the last thing she’d expected was to be rebuffed by a working stiff like Starsky. Maybe it was better this way. Hutch didn't need any more fireworks between himself and Vanessa. 

Lately, Hutch had been feeling more at ease at Huggy Bear’s than his own place. He'd come to enjoy the camaraderie of the people he'd soon share a beat with. Brothers in uniform who felt the same way he did about wanting to serve their community. Wanting to do something with their lives that mattered, instead of just earn a paycheck. Hutch never would have been happy pushing papers behind a desk the way his parents—and even Vanessa, if truth be told—had wanted him to. Police work seemed less like a job and more like a calling. 

The thought continued to roll around in Hutch’s mind as he took a seat at the crowded bar as usual after classes. 

“Sorry about the mess we made at your place the other day,” Colby said. “I hope there was no permanent damage to that fancy rug of yours.”

“No, no damage,” Hutch said. _Not to the rug anyway._

“Your wife sure is a looker,” Colby continued, despite Hutch’s discomfort with the subject matter. “But she seems a bit high maintenance.”

“The good-looking ones always are,” someone else chimed in from a few seats down. 

Hutch turned toward the speaker and then noticed Starsky at the far end of the bar dip a french fry into a dollop of ketchup and then into his mouth. Hutch felt the slow burn of embarrassment. Not because he'd clearly hosted a gathering Starsky hadn't been invited to—Starsky wouldn't have come even if he _had_ been—but because of John’s all to obvious insinuation that there was trouble brewing in paradise. Aware that Starsky had run up against the formidable force that was Vanessa Hutchinson, Hutch didn't want Starsky to perceive her as a chink in his armor. A weakness he might use against him at some point in the future. 

Hutch forced a smile. “I can handle her okay.” 

“Then why are you sitting here at my bar, friend, instead of at home with your beautiful wife?” Huggy Bear, the lanky, dark-skinned proprietor, drew a cloth across the bar, wiping away wet rings of condensation and peanut shells while everyone within hearing range had a good laugh. 

_The barkeep should have been a diplomat with the way he could read people,_ Hutch thought with a mix of disquiet and admiration.


	3. Chapter 3

_You know I love you, I always will_  
_My mind's made up by the way that I feel_  
_There's no beginning, there'll be no end_  
_'Cause on my love you can depend*_

“Ride-alongs start next week, people,” the instructor announced. “Your assignments will be posted outside the booking office.”

Hutch felt excitement flare within him like the strike of a match. This is what he'd been waiting for. Why he'd been studying and practicing so diligently these many months. Checking the list, he saw that he'd been paired with a no-nonsense veteran with the Bay City PD well known for his gruffness. But that didn't dim Hutch’s enthusiasm a bit. He felt sure the guy could teach him plenty of things that the classroom couldn't. And he was eager to learn. 

Hutch turned away from the assignment board and was surprised to nearly bump into Starsky. Although Starsky usually kept his distance, he hadn't disappeared from their social group altogether. In fact, sometimes it seemed as if the man was practically following him. Hutch would frequently catch him out of the corner of his eye as he went about his day, the battered camera case often around his neck. 

“Starsky’s really getting into that hobby of his,” Hutch mentioned to Colby. 

“So I've noticed. Maybe he’s planning to send some pictures into the Policemen’s Gazette or wants to get into crime scene photography.” 

Hutch forced a smile at Colby’s facetiousness. Starsky remained a bit of a curiosity to Colby as well, it seemed. If Hutch thought Starsky would open up to him, Hutch wouldn’t have minded asking him about his hobby. In fact, Hutch had the feeling he'd enjoy sitting down and talking to Starsky about anything at all. 

The knowledge that Starsky practically went out of his way to ignore him continued to prick at Hutch painfully. What did Starsky have against him? Could it really be his blue eyes and blond hair? His privileged upbringing? Talk about reverse discrimination. If they'd learned anything in the academy it was to not judge a book by its cover. Besides, Hutch had the impression Starsky was much smarter than that. Maybe smarter than any of them. The thought that he’d make a good partner came to his mind, unbidden.

“Excuse me,” Hutch approached Starsky as amiably as he could. There was a time he prided himself on his ability to charm, but recent events had him questioning that particular ability. “Who'd you get put with?” Hutch asked in an attempt at light conversation. 

Hutch was surprised that Starsky replied as easily as he did. “I got Richardson. I see you’re with Murphy.”

Hutch simply nodded. 

“He’s got a good reputation,” Starsky added.

Hutch nodded again, incredulous that they were having an actual conversation. “I hear the same about Richardson. I'm sure we’ll learn a lot from them.”

“Yeah,” Starsky agreed and Hutch thought he saw a glimmer of the smile he first saw months ago. _You feel it, too,_ he thought. _That excitement, that thrill of doing what we've been born to do._ ” But then the smile was gone, replaced by an expression that was hard to read. Concern? Wishfulness? 

“The streets are a lot different than the classroom. Be careful out there,” Starsky warned, then turned and walked away. 

ooOOoo

Starsky had been right. Riding along with Officer Murphy was an eye-opening experience. “Police work is as much intuition as training,” Murphy stated brusquely, echoing what they’d heard from time to time in the preceding months. Even if they’d had time to consult a textbook as they cruised the streets, it didn’t hold all the answers. They had to decide for themselves if the kid loitering outside the convenient store was looking for trouble or just waiting for friends. They had to determine the best way to cool down the hot head whose sports car had just been rear ended by a Buick. How to break up a rumble in the park before it started. How to show compassion to a junkie curled up in an alley. 

Hutch loved nearly every minute—loved using not only his knowledge but also his heart. 

As the days passed, Hutch’s respect for his senior officers and bond with his fellow trainees grew. He wished he could transmit to Vanessa how important he felt his work was. But she never seemed to understand, or even try. 

“Really, Ken? Punks, junkies, and crooks? Is that what your day is made up of?” 

Hutch sighed and set his fork down on the Noritake dinner plate, his meal half-eaten. He didn't want to spend another evening arguing. He desperately wished he could feel at least as close to his wife as he did his coworkers. Maybe it was that police work held an element of danger that caused emotions between partners to be heightened. Loyalty. Trust. Each shift began with the understanding that each officer might come face to face with injury or even death at any time. Hutch had come to realize that they all lived on the edge. It made relationships more precious. Life more meaningful. 

Hutch anchored himself in that thought as the Christmas season approached—his and Vanessa’s first away from their families. He hoped that sharing traditions would bring them closer together, even as the commercialism of the holiday had long since diminished its appeal for him. He loathed the image of Santa Claus’ overflowing bag in place of the simple gifts of the Wise Men; the garish lighting displays that overshadowed the one single Star of long ago. 

In California, Christmas seemed even more unsettling. At least in December Minnesota’s pristine fields of snow still held a touch of magic, while in L.A., mid-winter didn’t seem much different than April or September.

The ring of the phone interrupted their dinner and Vanessa, having finished the salad that served as her usual meal these days, went to answer it. Hutch listened half-heartedly as he toyed with his potatoes. He rarely got phone calls; they were usually for Van. “I’m sorry to hear that. I’ll let him know,” she said after a few seconds then hung up. 

“That was someone from the captain’s office,” she said, her face gone slightly pale under her tan. “An officer was shot tonight answering a call.”

“Shot?” Hutch’s felt his heart sink. 

“Killed, actually,” she clarified carefully. “They were calling to let everyone in the department know before it made the news.” For a minute Van’s cool facade melted. Even she couldn't help but feel for the fallen man, his wife and family. 

“Who . . . Who was it?” 

“Stark something, I believe he said.”

Instantly, Hutch’s unease suddenly shifted to sheer terror. His heart thudded in chest and his palm bore down on the table. “ _Starsky?_ ” He prompted, his voice strangely horse. 

“No. It was Stark. Dan Stark. Did you know him?”

Hutch had met Officer Stark but didn't know him well. He'd been a patrolman for several years. Neither a rookie nor a veteran. But he'd seemed like a good officer. Quiet and conscientious. 

Hutch’s fingers relaxed slightly and he felt a huff of air leave his chest. A loss of one was a loss for all. But what if it had been Starsky? For some reason he knew he couldn't have borne it. 

ooOOoo

Officer Stark had been responding to a report of a disturbance in the warehouse district where he'd gotten caught in the crossfire of a local gang war that had erupted without warning. As with most police memorials, the street in front of the funeral home was a river of squad cars. Uniforms stood four deep in the line to the coffin. The red-leaved poinsettias that interspersed traditional flower arrangements were reminders that a joyous season had been tinged with tragedy. 

Yvonne Stark’s red eyes showed anguish on her otherwise brave face, although the new widow insisted that Dan had died doing what he thought was right. His death was not in vain. Despite these assurances, for the Stark family, Christmas would forever be marred by grief. 

Dan’s partner seemed no less distraught. “It was my job to have his back,” he repeated over and over again. “I’d take his place in a heartbeat.”

Hutch couldn't help but be touched by the man’s devotion to his partner. That's what it was all about, he thought as he paid his respects. People who'd stand up for each against the darkness in the world. Who fought to make their communities better. Despite the tragedy, Hutch was gripped with the hope that he'd have a partnership like theirs someday. 

Afterward, many of the mourners gathered at Huggy Bear’s, not yet ready to go home to their ordinary lives. They looked to the support of their police family instead. Huggy seemed to be everywhere as he kept the drinks flowing while not saying anything about the accumulating tabs. His typical bubbly personality had turned calm and quiet, as if it was his friend who had died as well. Hutch appreciated that and wondered once again about the enigmatic man. What was his history? His connection to the neighborhood? Yet at the moment it really didn’t matter. All he knew was that the man could be trusted. Perhaps even with all their lives.

“I went to Dan and Yvonne’s wedding,” one man was saying. “They made such a great couple.”

“His daughter is the same age as mine,” another one added.

Like pebbles piled one atop the other, the mourners contributed their stories to the memories of the man. The time Dan fell and broke his ankle when running down a robbery suspect, the practical joke he’d played on Ernie in Records, the drive for school supplies he’d started for a group of foster kids. The memories built a monument to a well-lived life.

Hutch looked around the room as he listened to the stories, drinking in the sincerity of the emotions along with his beer. Then his eyes came to rest on Starsky slumped in a corner. The man had never been known for his grooming—his close-cropped hair his only concession to their profession’s conservative dress code—but that day Starsky looked downright slovenly. His uniform was wrinkled, his shadowed jaw looked like it hadn’t seen a razor in days, and his usually bright eyes had gone dark. It was clear Starsky had been drinking for some time. The man was clearly in pain and Hutch’s heart went out to him.

Hutch tipped his bottle in Starsky’s direction. “I didn’t realize Starsky and Dan Stark had been close,” Hutch said to Colby who was sitting next him.

Colby turned his head to Starsky’s solitary figure. “They weren’t that I know of.”

“Maybe he’s taking it so hard because his dad was a cop,” someone else at their table said.

“Yeah, maybe that’s it. I think I remember him telling me that his dad was killed when he was just a kid,” said John.

“In the line of duty, you mean?” Hutch asked, incredulous.

“Yeah, yeah that’s it.” Colby waved a hand at Huggy who went off to get him another drink. 

Hutch looked at John Colby as if he’d never seen him before. How could he gloss over something as important as that? It wasn’t as if it was some small detail, like he didn’t care for anchovies on his pizza. No doubt the death of his father had colored the man’s whole _world_. And here Starsky was, wanting to follow in his father’s footsteps despite everything. _Fuck!_

Hutch got up and went over to Starsky’s table. No one else was sitting with him. Perhaps he’d chased them all off. Perhaps he purposefully wanted to be alone, just not by himself. Despite the choice of several empty chairs, Hutch took the seat beside him. 

“How’re you doing?” Hutch asked.

“I’m doin.’” Starsky’s words were slurred, his fingers slack on a half-full bottle of beer. A few empties had gathered faster that Huggy could clear them away.

The silence that followed was awkward.

“I heard about your father,” Hutch started in quietly after a few minutes. “This has got to be tough on you.” He felt uncomfortable yet somehow wanted Starsky to know that he knew how much Officer Stark’s death must have hit home. That he was there if Starsky needed to talk.

Starsky looked up at him, eyes bleary. But even bleary they were . . . _beautiful,_ Hutch thought. The most amazing shade of blue. “Life’s tough all around,” he said. “At least pop died doing what he loved. That’s the best thing, ya know. Love.”

“Sure, Starsk,” the nickname came out unexpectedly, yet as easily as coming home. “The world could always use a little more love.”

“There’s all kinds of love, you know, Husch. Between huzbands and wives, parens and kids, friends . . . Love is all around us. You juz have ta look for it.” Starsky’s words were slurred, yet Hutch was amazed at his eloquence. 

Hutch put his hand over the top of Starsky’s beer. “Maybe I should take you home. You can’t drive like this. You’re going to get someone killed,” he said gently, and was surprised that Starsky agreed with a somber nod of his head. Maybe it was the cop in Starsky that knew instinctively when he’d crossed a line. Even stone drunk and hurting, Dave Starsky wasn’t about to endanger anyone else.

Hutch called Huggy over to their table to settle their bills. “I was wondering if I was going to have to call Starsky here a cab,” the barkeep noted as he collected the money Hutch handed him.

“Okay, you’re a cab,” Starsky mumbled, bungling the punch line of the corny joke.

Huggy just gave Starsky a look that Hutch could have sworn held a touch of tenderness. “Hand Goldilocks here the keys. I’ll make sure no one messes with your car,” he assured Starsky as he pocketed the change. It wasn’t the first time he’d dealt with a patron who’d had one too many. 

Hutch took the ring of keys Starsky pulled out of his pocket. Then he hefted him clumsily until he was able to wrap an arm securely around his waist. He could smell the alcohol on the breath that brushed his ear as he helped Starsky walk out.


	4. Chapter 4

_I see your face before me_  
_As I lay on my bed_  
_I cannot get to thinking_  
_Of all the things you said_

Starsky’s apartment was in a big white house that sat on the curve of the road in a quiet neighborhood. He hadn’t said anything on the twenty-minute ride home other than to offer enough directions to get them there. Hutch parked his Chrysler by the curb and helped Starsky out of the passenger side and up to the entrance of his unit. He unlocked the door with a key from Starsky’s ring. 

The place was bigger than it looked from the outside. It wasn’t messy, but not immaculate, either. It just looked lived in. A newspaper was open on the dinette table to the sports section. Several books and magazines dedicated to photography and cars were stacked on an end table. The furniture worn but comfortable. So different than Vanessa’s high-brow style. 

Starsky hadn’t sobered up any on the ride. In a way, he seemed even more muddled when they arrived. Lost, even. Hutch had meant to leave him on the couch but decided to settle him in his bed instead. He maneuvered him into the bedroom where Starsky fell easily into the crisply made bed. A holdover from his army days perhaps, Hutch mused. 

“You going to be okay, now?” Hutch asked, with the distinct feeling that he was trespassing into Starsky’s private turf. 

“Sure,” Starsky mumbled. “You can go now.” He rolled over, pulling the covers along with him as if to wrap himself in a cocoon. _What did he want the fabric to shield him from?_ Hutch wondered.

“Okay then,” Hutch looked at Starsky for a minute, then sighed. In his current condition, Starsky didn’t look so formidable. He looked almost . . . innocent. A surge of protectiveness came over Hutch. As if he were somehow responsible for the gruff New Yorker. As if they belonged together in some indefinable way. 

Hutch shook his head in self-recrimination. Tomorrow Starsky would wake up back to normal. His barriers would be locked back in place. He doubtless wouldn’t even thank Hutch for the ride. More likely, Starsky would be incensed that Hutch had dared to invade his privacy. 

Hutch stepped away to set Starsky’s keys on the nearby dresser. Along with a comb and a handful of pennies, an array of black and white photographs lay scattered across its top. Realizing they must some of Starsky’s own work, Hutch’s interest piqued. He began to look through them but then stopped, stunned. 

Most of them were of . . . _him._

Hutch in profile at the target practice, gun in hand and gaze intent; Hutch gathered with a couple other cadets in a hallway, his head thrown back in a laugh; Hutch relaxing at a picnic table in the park, his hair ruffled by the wind. Each shot was well constructed and showed off Hutch’s fine features to their best advantage. In fact, Hutch had to admit to himself, he’d never looked so good.

Starsky gave a small groan and Hutch turned back to him, one of the pictures still in his hand. Based on its angle, Hutch figured it must have been taken from the street in front of Huggy Bear’s. Through the window, Hutch sipped a beer pensively, the reflection of the glass creating an almost ethereal double-exposure. 

“They’re all of _me,_ ” Hutch said with a touch of wonder. He thought he should have been bothered by the revelation that the man had been practically stalking him, but oddly enough, he wasn’t. He was touched.

Starsky struggled to a sitting position. He looked at the picture dangling from Hutch’s fingers then slowly up to his face. His eyes held a profusion of emotions—anguish, embarrassment, heartache, longing—combined into a reality he didn’t dare speak. 

“But you don’t even _like_ me. You . . . you never talk to me . . . .” Hutch stammered, confused. Although the images told a different story, one he couldn’t quite grasp. He looked to Starsky for clarification.

“Self-preservation,” Starsky responded quietly. “I guess it’s because . . . I like you too much. I’ve lost so many people I’ve cared about. Pop was just the first. Then there was ‘Nam. . . ” Starsky’s voice faltered and his attention drifted away, as if he were reliving a hundred nightmares. “Since then, I’ve never let myself get close to anyone. But I knew somehow—with you—if we ever did get close, I mean, it would be different.”

“What do you mean . . . _different?_ ” asked Hutch.

“I don’t know. Just different.” Suddenly Starsky lurched to his feet. “I have to use the bathroom,” he mumbled, then he rushed past Hutch and out the bedroom door. 

Hutch looked after him wondering if he should see if he needed help, but Starsky quickly closed the door to the bathroom behind him. That answered that. Then Hutch heard the sound of water running. Apparently, Starsky could take care of himself. Besides, what could Hutch do or say that would smooth over the awkwardness of the moment? He’d just found out that everything he had believed about the man, including his opinion of Hutch himself, was completely wrong. Hutch felt as if up and down and down was up. None of it made sense and he didn’t know where he stood.

Vanessa would be waiting for Hutch at home. She hadn’t wanted to come to the funeral—funerals just depressed her, she’d said. Now he’d be late getting back. She wouldn’t be happy to find out he’d stopped by Huggy’s. Hutch had already anticipated her ire when he walked in. Love may be all around, as Starsky had said, but it seemed to be hiding from him these days. Maybe he needed to look a little harder. 

ooOOoo

Christmas Eve dawned disconcertedly clear and mild and Hutch reminded himself how he needed to get used to the Southern California winters. As a lowly cadet, Hutch was scheduled to work on Christmas the next day. He didn’t mind. He’d rather spend the day doing something useful rather than sitting at home opening pointless presents and eating tofu turkey. Vanessa didn’t seem to mind either. She’d made last minute plans to fly back to Minnesota, although he didn’t know why she needed three suitcases for the short trip.

He and Vanessa set up a small white aluminum tree for Christmas—a real pine would only have left a mess of needles to clean up. In order to salvage at least some remnant of the holiday spirit, that evening Hutch talked Vanessa into watching “It’s a Wonderful Life” with him. She merely shrugged and poured herself another glass of wine. The scenes of softly falling snow on the TV screen inexplicably made Hutch miss Duluth. He must be getting sentimental as he aged, he mused. 

Just as the gym floor began to move, about to drop the happily dancing couples into the pool below, the doorbell rang. “I’ll get it,” Hutch said, unfolding himself from the sofa. Vanessa merely nodded, distractedly. He knew she wasn’t all that interested in the movie. He wondered where her thoughts were. 

When Hutch opened the door, he was shocked to see Starsky standing in front of him. He was holding several cardboard posters in one hand and a boom box in the other. Hutch hadn’t seen Starsky since the day of the funeral and was surprised at how much he’d missed him, even from a distance. But it was just as well, Hutch had thought. He had no idea what to say to him. 

Hutch glanced behind him, reflexively checking on Vanessa. Her dislike of unexpected company was legendary, especially any of his friends from the academy. But Starsky held up a finger in front of his lips and lifted the top poster. _Tell her it’s carol singers_ was spelled out in big letters across the cardboard. 

Hutch suppressed a smile. Starsky had done his research well. Damn, if he wasn’t going to make a spectacular cop. A great partner. He’d do his old man proud soon enough.

“Who is it?” Vanessa called out, a touch of irritation in her voice. 

“It’s carolers,” Hutch answered over his shoulder. Starsky switched on the boom box and immediately the sound of a choir singing “Silent Night” began to play. Hutch and Starsky exchanged a conspiratorial look. 

Starsky slipped the cardboard to the back of the stack and displayed the next one in order. It read, _With any luck, by next year. . ._

And the next, _I’ll be with partnered with one of these guys._

The following card Starsky held up had several paper Clint Eastwood cutouts from his role in ‘Dirty Harry,’ and Magnum Force’ stuck on it like a collage.

Hutch nearly laughed aloud, thinking how all his buddies at the academy thought of Eastwood as the ultimate super cop.

Starsky grinned back then continued to lift up the cards one by one, revealing to Hutch what each had scrawled on them.

_But for now let me say. . ._

__

__

_Without hope or agenda. . ._

_Just because it's Christmas . . ._

_(And at Christmas you tell the truth) . . ._

Here, Starsky paused as if gathering his courage to show the next card, and when he did, Hutch felt his knees grow weak. 

_To me you are perfect._

A soft, wistful expression came over Starsky’s face. He continued to lift each card up in turn. _And I’d want you for a partner . . ._

__

__

_Until you look like this . . ._

Starsky held up a picture of a decrepit mummy that had Hutch stifling a giggle, then smiling from ear to ear.

Finally, Starsky had reached the last card. It simply read _Merry Christmas._

Starsky and Hutch stood for a minute looking mutely at each other. Something indefinable passed between them. Hutch mouthed “Merry Christmas” and Starsky responded with a little ‘thumbs up’ gesture. Then Starsky turned and walked resolutely away. Hutch thought back to that first day in self-defense class. How the surly New Yorker called him blondie and teased him about his prep school bearing. He knew now it had all been an act. Self-preservation, Starsky had called it, after all he’d been through. In anticipation of the journey they, as rookies, were about to embark on. 

Realization dawned. An inescapable truth Hutch had probably known all along. The reason he’d been so troubled by Starsky’s cold-shoulder treatment, yet not by the photographs—a bold invasion of his personal space.

Hutch went after Starsky then, forgetting about Van for the time being. He ran out the door of his apartment building and down to the street. It was dark and unusually deserted. Hutch figured everyone else must be celebrating the holiday with friends and family. Then he saw a lone figure crossing the road with a gait he’d recognize anywhere. 

“Starsky,” Hutch called out, the name echoing off the buildings.

Starsky paused, allowing Hutch to catch up with him before he got to his car. Hutch grasped Starsky’s arm and turned him around. As he did, he felt a coil of tension deep within the other man.

“You don’t have to be afraid of being friends with me,” Hutch said. “I don’t know what’s going to happen down the road—we’ll get knocked around, sure. It’s part of the job. Maybe even killed. Heck, we’re all going to die someday. But I think the two of us are meant to be in this thing together. Don’t you think we should give us a chance?”

As the two men faced each other they finally allowed themselves to feel the connection they could no longer deny. An awareness that something bigger than both of them was on the horizon. They just had to reach for it. Take a leap into the unknown. It was frightening, yes, but thrilling, too. And neither were cowards. 

Starsky paused, as if thinking through what Hutch had said. Then, after a few minutes, he gave him the faintest of nods and the corners of his mouth drew up in what Hutch took for a smile. 

Hutch thought it might possibly be the best gift he’d ever received. He smiled back. “See you in class,” he said, then turned back toward his apartment.


	5. Epilogue

Vanessa never came back from Minnesota. Hutch figured out later—the same time as he discovered that their joint bank accounts had been drained—that she’d been planning her move for weeks. She called him on New Year’s Day. Being married to a cop held no future, she’d told him. When Starsky showed up at his door a short time later, pizza and six-pack in hand, Hutch had to disagree.

Weeks later, despite having been served with final divorce papers, academy graduation day was a jubilant occasion. The newly minted officers were handed their diplomas with full pomp and circumstance. Afterward, Hutch gathered with Starsky and the other graduates at Huggy Bear’s where the barkeep declared drinks were on the house.

“I see you two have mended fences,” John Colby noted, as Starsky and Hutch sat squashed together in a crowded booth. Hutch thought his tone held a hint of jealousy. While Hutch had learned that he could read Starsky like a book, Colby, he’d decided, was a mystery. He shrugged his shoulders with careful nonchalance and took another swig of beer. 

Meanwhile, Starsky’s sullen demeanor had been replaced with an exuberance that seemed unending. “Yep. We’re both been accepted by the Bay City PD. How about you?”

“I’m not sure yet,” Colby admitted. “I don’t know if I’m ready to sign on anywhere. I think I might hit the road for a bit.” 

Hutch thought he heard of touch of guardedness in John Colby’s tone, but brushed any momentary unease aside. Then he and Starsky traded glances that were flooded with warmth. The roads they’d been on had already led them home.

_You gave your promise to me and I gave mine to you_  
_I need someone beside me in everything I do_

_You know I love you, I always will_  
_My mind's made up by the way that I feel_  
_There's no beginning, there'll be no end_  
_'Cause on my love you can depend._

**FIN**


End file.
